


spiritassassin prompts

by erebones



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: M/M, Tumblr Prompt, spiritassassin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 02:03:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10607019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: A collection of the drabbles I originally wrote on tumblr for ask memes and the like. Find me aterebones, and feel free to leave a prompt!





	1. sated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anonymous. feat. gross sweaty teenage boy sex
> 
> tags: nsfw, penetration, topping from the bottom

Baze can’t seem to get a good grip. The air feels wet and heavy in his lungs, puffing hotly against the back of Chirrut’s neck, and his fingers slip against the sweaty stretch of Chirrut’s flanks as he struggles to hang on. He _lurches_  forward like a great lumbering bear, and groans when he slips out of him. Again. 

Chirrut giggles hysterically. “Sorry, sorry! I just didn’t think–I didn’t–”

He wriggles like a fish, one of those pale, blind ones that swim in the depth of the kyber pools that Baze once dared him to catch–he’d been soaking wet when they finally pulled him out, laughing and half-drowned, with no fish in sight. But he’d been cold then, clammy like a dead thing, and now he’s hot and flushed and _Baze can’t hold on._

“This isn’t working,” Baze finally snaps, sitting back on his heels. He wipes his hands on his thighs, to no avail, and his mouth waters as he watches Chirrut flop over onto his back and spread his legs. He’s playing with himself again, but the coy flirtation from earlier is fraying at the edges. 

“Maybe we should try it a different way.”

“But Naal _said_ , this way is easier for–for the–” His voice breaks, and he gestures lamely in Chirrut’s direction. Every inch of his skin is flushed red, and his eyes are nearly black with how wide his pupils are. No wonder, given how long Baze spent working him open, painstaking, until he was shaking with want and Baze could hardly think in a straight line. He rubs sweat from his eyes with his wrist. _Not helping._

Chirrut’s languid posture tightens suddenly, and he takes his hand off his cock long enough to push at Baze’s shoulder. “Lie down,” he says imperiously. “No _buts_.” He snickers. Baze rolls his eyes, but obeys. His prick slaps against his belly as he settles, and he resists the urge to cover it with his hands. _Bit late for that now._

“Like this?” Baze says dubiously. He watches as Chirrut swings astride him, like he’s some beast of burden, and sits forward on his pelvis. Baze feels his cock skid against Chirrut’s thigh and swallows hard. 

“Perfect. No, wait. Here.” He grabs Baze’s hands and puts them solidly on his thighs. “Just… hang on.”

He’s not quite as slippery here. Baze pets his skin in soft, quick strokes as Chirrut lifts up on his knees, one hand behind himself, his brow furrowed with concentration. And then he sinks down. 

Baze shouts–he can’t help it. He slaps one hand over his mouth and the other digs into Chirrut’s thigh, desperate. It takes only a few moments, even though it lasts forever. And then Chirrut is sitting on his pelvic bones, flushed and grinning, triumphant. 

“Love,” Baze chokes, because he’s so warm, so tangled up inside with need and affection and _lust_ for this man, “I’m sorry, I can’t–I’m not going to, to take long, it’s so much–”

“Baze,” Chirrut breathes. It’s only a whisper of sound, but it cuts Baze’s voice right down the middle as if he’d shouted in his face. “It’s all right.” And then he _moves._

Baze chokes. The sensation is almost more than he can bear. He loves the feel of Chirrut’s hand on him, familiar as it is–and, a little less familiar, his mouth, or the sweet, soft pressure of his thighs. But _this_. May the Whills forgive him for this blasphemy, but he’s never felt anything so good in all his life. 

It doesn’t take long at all. Chirrut rocks on top of him, shallow at first, then with increasing strength and confidence, and though he tries to resist, Baze feels his orgasm being yanked out of him against his will, so strong and sudden that his hips lift off the bed and he sobs for breath after, heartbeat slamming in his ears. Apologies jumble together on his lips, but Chirrut shakes his head–he fists his cock and moves faster, harder, and then his face screws up and he spills all over his fist and Baze’s stomach.

Like a tree hacked down at the root, Chirrut crumples forward in a heap. Baze can’t find any breath inside to protest. The movement slips his cock free of Chirrut’s body, and he can feel it pat against his inner thigh, sticky and slowly growing soft. 

_Inside him. I was… I did **that** , inside… _

“Baze,” Chirrut mumbles against his cheek. “Don’t be embarrassed. We’ll do better next time.”

Baze shakes with silent laughter, which makes Chirrut shake, too. Chirrut moans an unintelligible protest. “Sorry, love. It’s just–that was amazing. Really amazing.”

“Hmmmmmm.” Chirrut’s voice vibrates low and sated through Baze’s limbs, tingling all the way down to his toes. Then he shifts, and Baze feels something wet on his thigh. “Ngh. Baze.”

“What?”

“I’m… _leaking_.”

“Gross, Chirrut.”

“Gross!” He bolts upright, propped on his elbows, and glares. “And whose fault is that?”

“Mine,” Baze admits meekly. He pats Chirrut’s ribs, coaxing him back down. “I’ll get you a cloth. In a minute.”

“Hmmm.” Mouth twitching, Chirrut lays back down and nestles under his chin. “I guess I can wait a little longer.”


	2. this was a mistake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anonymous. warning for mild gore
> 
> tags: combat training, zama-shiwo, baze is Patient and chirrut is a reckless little shit, newly blind chirrut

Baze is in the crafting hall when one of the younger acolytes comes running, his name on her lips. He knows her from the first level staff class–Liu Bei, tiny-limbed and clumsy, but with the determination of someone twice her age. Now she’s pale and terrified, lower lip wobbling as she skids to a stop before his loom and bows in a hurry. 

“What is it, little sister?” he says, trying to keep his voice calm. “Speak slowly, it’s all right.” 

“It’s M-Master Chirrut, Guardian.” She gulps and bows again, fist to palm, not daring to meet his eyes. “They were sparring in the sand ring, Master Laa asked me to come find you–”

Baze is already flinging himself from his stool, robes swirling, but he makes himself pause long enough to touch her cheek. “You did well,” he says, and then he’s gone, running through the halls to the sparring rings. _If that idiot has made things worse with his foolishness…_

He can hear Chirrut’s voice before he even reaches the ground floor, raised in ire, and he slows his steps in time to come around the corner. Chirrut is sitting at the edge of the ring, a small knot of acolytes and guardians clustered around him. But he can see, even from here, the purple swelling on his face and the blood matting his creamy under-robe as he holds a cloth to his nose. It doesn’t do much to muffle his complaining. 

Baze crosses the sand with a deliberate stride, hands folded into his sleeves. The little crowd parts for him like water around a stone, and then he stands before Chirrut, looking down at him wearily. Chirrut’s complaints cut off a beat later. He cocks his head. 

“Baze?”

Baze makes an aborted gesture with his hand. “Leave us. Return to your duties, all of you.”

With only muffled protests, they scatter, and Baze waits until they’ve been left alone before lowering himself to the edge of the ring. “I thought we agreed you were going to wait another week before using staffs.”

Chirrut glowers at nothing and wipes at his nose. Whatever fountain of blood his opponent’s staff had called forth is gone, leaving a gory mess in its wake; he smears his mouth with the rag and spits pink saliva into the sand. “I got cocky,” he says stiffly, before Baze can prompt him. “I thought that because I could dodge a living fist, I could dodge a piece of wood just as easily.” He shuts his useless eyes and lays back onto the sand, limbs splayed out like those of a broken doll. “This was a mistake.”

Baze reaches for him. Hesitates, then completes the gesture, laying his hand on Chirrut’s shoulder. “It wasn’t a mistake. Well–maybe the staffs were. But I’m honestly not surprised. You’ve always pushed the boundaries of what was expected of you.”

“Much good it’s done me.” Chirrut’s lip curls like he wants to spit again, but he refrains. 

“It _has_  done you good. Look at you. A month ago you could barely walk without assistance. Now you fight hand to hand and you hold your own.”

“You knocked me down yesterday,” Chirrut pouts. 

“I didn’t say you were back to your old speed. Not entirely.” He grips Chirrut’s shoulder harder when he seems ready to pull away. “Baby steps, Chirrut. You can’t expect to be back at the top right away.”

Chirrut _does_  pull away, then, but only so he can sit up and lean hard into Baze’s shoulder. He didn’t even have to feel for where Baze was, first, but he decides not to mention it, not for such simple praise. Chirrut has never wanted coddling. 

“My head hurts,” he says after a while. 

Baze hums. “I imagine it does.” He reaches out for Chirrut’s staff, lying a short distance away in the sand, and presses it into his hands. “Go clean up. I want to see your forms after dinner, and you’ll give the initiates a fright looking like that.”

Chirrut is back to pouting. “Didn’t you hear me? I’ve just been _hit in the face_  with a _staff_.”

“I heard, love.” He pats his knee brusquely and stands. “Would you like me to walk you to the infirmary?”

“No.” His lower lip sticks out a bit, and then withdraws into a sly smile. “You could kiss it better, though. If you wanted.”

Baze rolls his eyes and gives a quick glance around the ring. They’re not entirely alone–a few acolytes move around the edges, readying for their next class. Master Laa is nowhere to be seen, but if Baze knows them, they’re lurking somewhere nearby to make sure their golden child is going to be all right. It wouldn’t be appropriate to kiss him here, nor would it be particularly pleasant, with his face stained with his own blood. Alas, Chirrut is really quite good at pouting. 

“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, and holds his chin steady, brushing a light kiss to his cheek. “Now go clean up. Supper, then staff.”

“Yes, Guardian,” Chirrut says impishly, and he sidesteps out of reach before Baze can thump him for impertinence. 


	3. don't leave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for natia-rebmik

Rain slaps steadily against the window the day Baze comes home. He hitches his backpack a little higher on his shoulder and stands in front of the door, damp from his sprint across the busy street, fingers tapping a restless tattoo against his thigh. Chirrut probably isn’t even home. It’s the middle of the day on a weekend. He’s probably at the tai chi studio, or running errands, or having lunch with a friend. Living his life. Moving on. 

_Stop being stupid. You’ve come this far._

Baze used to have a spare key, but he lost it somewhere between Boston and the Mojave Desert, so he lifts his hands and raps bare knuckles on wood. A quick, emotionless sound. He withdraws again like he’s been scalded with hot water and holds his breath, waiting. 

Just when he’s convinced himself to turn around and run, rain be damned, he hears footsteps down the hall. His mouth feels drier than the sand he’s been camping in for the last two weeks, and his heart slams against his ribs like a caged animal as the bolt is turned and the door opens. 

Chirrut stands in the gap in the door with the chain pulled taut, and Baze can’t breathe. He looks tired, a little irritable, like he’s readying himself to refuse a tract–then something changes. Baze doesn’t speak, _can’t_ speak, but Chirrut lifts his head and breathes in and he goes a little pale. 

“Hello?”

“Chirrut, it’s–” 

The door slams, cutting him off at the pass. Baze rocks back on his heels and feels a surge of terror– _I’ve been gone too long this time, he’s not going to take me back_ –and then the door is flung open wide and Chirrut comes out onto the veranda, reaching for him. His hands meet damp cotton and latch on, and Baze is pulled forward into an embrace. 

“You stupid, stupid man,” he breathes, and then right on its heels, “I’m sorry for what I said, my love, I didn’t mean a word of it–I’m sorry, _I’m sorry,_ please don’t go, don’t leave me again–”

“ _Chirrut_.” He has to shake him a little to get him to shut up, and then he dumps his pack on the floor–gently, mindful of the camera inside–and hauls Chirrut into his arms. “Chirrut, hey. It’s okay. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you where I was going–”

“Yeah, you’d _better_ be,” Chirrut mumbles, and punches his shoulder. He wipes at his eyes suspiciously and cups Baze’s face in both hands. “You’re sunburnt. Where…?”

“Mojave desert for NatGeo.” He swallows, nervous again. “You’re not angry?”

Chirrut’s lips thin, but he shakes his head. “I’m angry because you left without a word out of some misguided attempt at _protecting_  me. Not because of the job. I’m _proud_  of you, you great lunkhead! When will you see that?”

Guilt strikes again, harder than before, and Baze slumps forward into Chirrut’s warmth. Chirrut’s right–he _was_ stupid. The thing that drives him, that pays the bills and lights a fire under him, is a thing that Chirrut can never completely be a part of, and he’s still learning how to juggle that. But that’s no excuse for leaving him behind. Even if they did argue the night before he left. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, directly into Chirrut’s ear like a secret. “Please forgive me.”

“I’ll consider it,” Chirrut says magnanimously, but his hands are gentle in Baze’s hair and the reddened shells of his ears. “Come inside, tell me everything. And let me fetch the aloe, I think we have some in the medicine cabinet.”

He retreats into the apartment, leaving the door open behind him. Baze takes a breath and picks up his bag. _We’re going to be okay._


	4. total control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for natia-rebmik
> 
> tags: sexytimes, fingering, edging, the use of zama-shiwo for Naughty purposes

Chirrut holds his breath for a count of ten, lets it out in a steady stream. _I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me_. 

A trickle of sweat slips down his temple, just barely missing the corner of his eyelid. Breathe in, breathe out. _Focus. Total control._ Below, he can feel Baze–an enormous presence wrapped in the breath of the Force, inhaling and exhaling in sync. Two broad fingers press inside of him, slick with oil, and Chirrut shudders. 

_I am one with the Force…_

It’s a game they play, sometimes. Chirrut calls it meditation practice–Baze doesn’t call it anything. It was his idea, but he refuses to own it. Their seventh duan is on the horizon, intimidating and awful and splendorous, and this is how the cope. This is how they practice. _Total control._

The trials for seventh are numerous, but the one Chirrut fears the most is the eighty-third form of _zama-shiwo_. The ultimate test of bodily control. He has perfected his mind and body over the years, training for this precise task, but Chirrut is not perfect, not like Baze. He has failed trials before. He is easily distracted, mind flitting from the task at hand to something more interesting– _Baze’s callouses against his insides, Baze’ breath on his backside, Baze’s voice low and honey-sweet in his ear–_ and it is only by the grace of the Whills and the endlessly patient Masters that Chirrut has come so far so quickly. And by the grace of Baze Malbus. 

Chirrut cries out, suddenly, body contracting with imminent orgasm. Baze does not relent, twisting his fingers deeper–Chirrut grabs his own knees and holds on, breathing, fighting the snarling viper that curls inside his gut, longing for release. _Not yet. Not yet not yet not yet I am one with the Force–_

The agony passes. He breathes, great ragged huffs, throat raw and skin sheened with sweat. It’s been more than an hour. More than two, he thinks. Time slips and melts away from him, trickling like grains of sand, impossible to count. 

“Chirrut.”

Baze is hoarse, too, but Chirrut is too far gone to feel even the slightest satisfaction. 

“Chirrut, I will count to three. Before I’ve finished, you will find release. Understand?”

Chirrut nods. He breathes. He prays. 

“One.”

His thighs are tight with strain. His hands are claws. _I am one with the Force._

“Two.”

Sweat seeps beneath his eyelids, stinging, and he arcs his back. He needs it. Baze’s fingers have gone still, filling him but not fucking him, and he trembles on the edge. _The Force is with me._

“Three.”

Chirrut comes, and comes, and comes. He cries out, he thinks, but his voice is so shredded that no sound emerges. His body convulses outside of his control, and he can feel Baze over him, soothing, stroking him, but he’s out of his mind, out of his body, transcending time and space. He is _in_ the Force, and nothing can touch him. 

He comes down slowly, wrapped in Baze’s arms. His stomach is a mess and his body aches, sore where he’s clenched against the intruding pleasure. A cup of water is pressed to his lips, and he drinks. Breathes. 

“Perfect,” Baze murmurs, wiping sweat from his brow. “If you can manage _that_ , the seventh duan has no hope in hell.”

Chirrut grins, exhausted, and shuts his eyes. The seventh duan can wait. 


	5. crave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for thewintermusketeer

Baze carries a memory of sweetness on his tongue. 

As a boy, in the temple gardens, there was a gnarled old tree. The uneti tree in the center of the garden was the most prized for its holy nature, tended by acolytes as faithfully as the rising and setting of the sun, but this one was forgotten. Not neglected, for each part of the garden served its purpose and was given the appropriate care–but it wasn’t a particularly pretty tree, or a bountiful one, and the fruits it gave every quarter-cycle were hard-shelled and difficult to husk. But its syrup was prized in the kitchen, spicy and sweet; it was said that the Abbess had a particular fondness for it, when it could be had, and so when Baze was given sole care of the tree, he was honored.

As time passed, it became a tried and true companion. Old and weathered, with lumpy bark that had grown hard and impenetrable over the years, it was not a friendly sort of tree–the spigots they had nailed in place a century ago had to be carefully monitored, lest they become clogged or overgrown and therefore useless. Planting a new spigot would be difficult, if not impossible, so Baze visited the tree each day, talking to it, singing his morning prayers under his breath while he worked. 

The tree flourished under his care. The syrup tasted richer, its blooms were more abundant and heavy with a cloying aroma each time the season came around. Baze still participated in evening prayers at the foot of the uneti tree with the others, but afterward he would wander to his own tree and pay his respects. He didn’t want it to feel lonely. 

He remembers quite vividly the day he found Chirrut in its branches. A small, wild-eyed, nest-haired foundling boy, all skin and bones, perched among the waxy leaves like a strange and featherless bird. His initiate’s robes were already torn and dirty, and he had a look about him like he might bite. Or perhaps, if Baze tried to coax him down, simply make the jump in an effort to escape, and his bones looked too brittle for such an attempt. 

So Baze ignored him. He sang a little song as he pruned new bark from around the spigots, checked the lines to the syrup bucket, turned over the mulch at its roots to search for evidence of mites. Afterward he bowed to the tree, thanking it for its service, and departed. Behind him, nestled in the cradle of the ancient roots, he left his breakfast untouched: a tin cup of caf and a mango, only slightly bruised. 

It became a kind of ritual. Baze came each morning after prayers, with enough breakfast in his pockets for two. He paid his respects to the tree, whether or not it needed particular attention, and then he took his breakfast at its base, setting the other portion aside. Then he left, whistling. 

There were plenty of whispers around the temple about the lost boy. He’d been taken in by the elders, an orphan off the streets, and though he had yet to leave temple grounds, he would not be caged. He did not sleep in the dormitory with the other initiates. He did not attend prayers. He scavenged and stole his meals from the kitchens, and he refused to be caught long enough to bathe him or trim his hair. Baze didn’t know where he passed his nights–perhaps he slept in the tree. Regardless, he was always there, always watching his movements with huge black eyes, though lately Baze thought his fragile terror had begun to turn to curiosity. 

The harvest that year was a good one. Baze was one of the few who cared enough to collect the hard fruits for consumption rather than composting, but this year instead of carrying them to the kitchens, he brought his stone and his mallet to the tree. He knelt, thanked the tree for its bounty, and found a suitable crease in the husk to place his sharpened stone. 

“That’s not gonna work.”

Baze went still. The voice had been soft and cracked, but unmistakable–and when he glanced up through his lashes, the boy was there, swinging from the low branches like a little monkey. The child furrowed his brows at him in a horrible scowl and stuck out his tongue, but did not retreat. 

“I have been harvesting the _luppa_  for many years,” Baze replied patiently. “I know what I’m doing.” When there was no reply except dubious silence, he added, “Stay and watch, if you don’t believe me.”

He repositioned the stone and gave the butt end a good whack with his mallet. _Thnk_. And another. Overhead, he could hear the boy snigger, but then he gave it one more whack and the husk split open with a crack. Baze grabbed both halves before they could spill and peered inside. The fruit was rich and yellow, perfectly ripe, and when he licked a droplet of water from his rim, sweetness burst across his tongue like a star streaking across the atmosphere. 

There was a double-thump and he looked up to find the boy standing quite near, scabby-kneed. Baze grinned and held out one half. “Try some. It’s good.”

After a good long stare, the boy darted forward and snatched the fruit away before retreating to settle with his back against the trunk. He watched Baze over the rim of the hull as he lifted it to his mouth. And then surprise came into his face, quickly followed by greed. He scooped the soft flesh out with his fingers and ate it at lightning speed, even when Baze told him he’d make himself sick if he wasn’t careful. 

Then he looked around him. The ground was scattered with more of the fruits, hard and impenetrable, but his eyes fell to Baze’s tools and his eyes lit up with craving. 

“Show me,” he said imperiously, as if he were a little prince and not a half-starved waif that Baze had found in a tree. 

Baze tapped his chin with sticky fingers. “This is a very old and very sacred tree,” he intoned–it was only partly a lie. It felt sacred to _him_ , and that was what mattered, wasn’t it? “I can’t give these secrets to just _anyone_.” The boy scowled at this, but he pressed on anyway. “But if an initiate came to me, asking to learn the ways of the _lupp_  tree with his robes all nice and his hair cut, and not smelling like a garbage chute…”

The boy frowned harder at this, but not at Baze–his eyes were focused elsewhere. Then he jumped to his feet and said, almost formally, “I’ll be right back.”

And Baze was left alone. He grinned and reached for the next _luppa_. 


	6. silent fury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for quantumghosts <3
> 
> tags: that time when baze left for x number of years and came back and chirrut couldn't stay mad for longer than .02 seconds

The night is cold, but Baze has endured colder. He tucks his chin deeper into his hood and leans against the hard stucco, willing himself to absorb any of the lingering heat left there by the sun’s weak rays. He lets his eyes fall to half mast. These streets are dangerous, yes, but not so dangerous that he fears abuse, here in his little corner. The repeater cannon alone is quite the deterrent. 

The door hisses open at his back and he curls harder into the wall, holding his breath, hoping to go unnoticed. But Chirrut, though blind, has never been imperceptive. He stands on the threshold and reaches out with his staff–the hard metal end whacks right into Baze’s ribs, and he fights back a cough. 

Chirrut sniffs. Doesn’t speak. Just turns on his heels and returns to the small one-room apartment he keeps by himself, and he does not close the door behind him. 

After waiting a few minutes, Baze gets up and follows. Immediately by the door is a worn set of stairs, carved directly into the bedrock. He climbs them, steep enough that he can support himself with his hands on the steps without bending forward, and at the top he finds the little room just as he left it the day before: a dingy, clean-swept floor, dingy walls that are nonetheless free of cobwebs and clutter, a kitchenette and a single pallet against the wall for the only furniture. A sad and barren place, lit dimly by a single-use glow lamp sitting on the three-legged table–for Baze’s benefit, obviously. A hopeful sign. 

Chirrut is sitting on his pallet cross-legged, feet bare and tucked up in lotus position as he chants quietly under his breath. Baze watches him and tries to be annoyed, tries to hate the sounds of prayer, so familiar and yet so distant from him now, and can’t. Whatever anger he’d harbored has faded with the years spent apart. Now he can’t bring himself to care. 

He sets his cannon and its coolant tank against the wall, well out of the way. Chirrut’s prayer hitches only a little before running on. Baze means to wait him out, but curiosity wins. 

“Why am I here?”

Chirrut’s voice dries up. His eyes stay closed, brow furrowed, but he doesn’t pick up the thread of his prayer again. 

“Seriously, Chirrut. Yesterday you made it clear that you never wanted to speak to me again.” Pause. “Which is a promise you seem to be keeping. But if you hate me, why am I here? Why do you care what happens to me?”

Silence. Baze’s breath kicks up a notch, anxiety rolling over him in a thick wave. He never expected Chirrut’s forgiveness, or his love. But this, whatever it is, is something he can’t define or explain away, and it niggles at him like a mite trapped against the skin. 

“Chirrut. _Please_.” He drops his cloak and outer jacket to the floor and goes to him, goes to his knees on the hard floor. Chirrut’s eyes have opened, but they only stare sightlessly into the middle distance as Baze folds himself in half, forehead to the ground and hands reaching for the edge of Chirrut’s pallet. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for leaving you, for what I said. I’m sorry for what I believe–”

“Stop.”

Chirrut’s voice jars him, sends ice crystals stabbing through his veins. He hasn’t heard his voice since the day he left five years ago. When he returned, tired and hardened and _lonely_ , Chirrut had had nothing to give him but silent fury. But perhaps… perhaps. Perhaps those cold, cold embers have turned to ash. 

“You were sitting outside my doorstep in the dead of Jedha’s winter,” Chirrut says, sounding older and more tired than Baze remembers. “Why?”

“You may despise me,” Baze says evenly, still facing the ground, “but you have always been my only constant. The only star my eyes kept coming back to. I will not leave you again, nor allow any harm to come to you that I can prevent.”

“I do not need your protection.”

“It is not an offer. It is an oath.”

For a long time, there is no reply. Then Chirrut sighs and gets to his feet. Baze stays where he is while Chirrut steps around him and crosses to the other side of the room, doing something at the counter. He hears the hiss of escaping steam and the clatter of dishes. Then Chirrut’s voice comes again, from behind. 

“There is tea. Come and drink it. Then you will sleep, and tomorrow we will discuss what is to be done.”

Baze gets to his feet in stages. Knees first, wincing at the ache in his joints at the cold and the uncomfortable position, then one foot at a time, head bowed in penitence even though Chirrut cannot see him. “What do you mean, what is to be done?”

Chirrut cocks his head. “The city is overrun. The Temple is no more.” His voice lilts strangely, detached, like a shadow lingering a few steps behind its owner. And yet there’s a lightness there, as if something Chirrut has been looking for has finally been found. “The Empire isn’t going to remove itself without help, is it?”

Baze exhales. It’s not forgiveness, yet, but Baze will take what he can get. Even if Chirrut never loves him again, at least he will not make him suffer silence. 


	7. soak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anonymous
> 
> tags: chirrut is Thirsty,teenage guardians, temple ocs

Chirrut has just decided that he hates the rain. _Hates_ , with an unbridled passion. He ducks his head against the persistent drizzle and digs his shovel in harder, trying to shift the stone that lies stubbornly in the way of his furrow. Behind, Tiya clears her throat and rattles her seed bag. 

“C’mon, slowpoke. You’re holding up the line.”

“Sorry,” Chirrut mutters, gritting his teeth. “This rock is just…”

“Need a hand?”

 _Oh, Force_. 

“I’m _fine_ ,” Chirrut snaps, furiously ignoring the junior guardian standing a few feet away. _His_  furrow is already done and planted, and he hardly looks the worse for wear–not even breathing hard, just soaked through like the rest of them, his outer robes hanging around his waist and his white tunic plastered to his broad, firm chest, clinging to the lines of his shoulders and arms…

“Imwe!” Tiya barks, startling him. “Don’t be stupid, give Baze the shovel.”

Grumbling, Chirrut gives in and hands it over. Baze takes it without even looking at him, and rolls up his sleeves. 

Chirrut tries not to stare, but it’s difficult. Muscles flex beneath skin and transparent cloth, and Malbus grunts with exertion, legs braced like tree trunks in the muck. And then, when even that leverage proves fruitless, he sighs, wipes rainwater from his brow, and holds out the shovel. 

“Hold this, please.”

And then he _takes off his shirt._ Chirrut shuts his eyes and prays to the Whills to strike him down, now, while he still has some modicum of dignity. 

The Whills do not listen. Baze’s skin glistens with water as he knots his tunic around his waist and bends in half, getting his hands around the stubborn rock. Chirrut feels a little faint. And then, with a great heave and the slurping suck of mud, the rock comes free. Chirrut quivers and hangs on to the shovel for dear life as Baze hefts the damn thing in his arms and trudges to the edge of the planting field with it. 

“There,” he says cheerfully when it’s been added to the pile. He smacks mud from his arms and hands, but a broad swathe of it is still clinging to his chest and belly. Chirrut wants to drag his fingers through it. Or maybe his tongue. 

“Chirrut!” Tiya yelps, and he belatedly recalls that her kind can read the thoughts and emotions of the people around them–not concretely, but in broad strokes. Chirrut flames red and whirls on her. 

“Not. A word.”

Tiya slaps a hand over her scaled mouth and stares at him with wide, slit-pupiled eyes, trying not to laugh. Chirrut scowls and turns back to his work. 

But Baze isn’t leaving. “Aren’t you going to say thank you?” he asks, arms folded across his chest and disgruntlement written into his high forehead. The rain has slicked his short dark hair, making his ears stand out. Chirrut, very fleetingly, thinks of nibbling on them, but Tiya’s embarrassed groan cuts it off quick. 

“Thank you,” he says stiffly. “It’s much appreciated.”

Baze is still frowning, but he doesn’t say anything, perhaps deterred by Tiya’s presence. Chirrut doesn’t know him _that_  well, really, aside from lusting after him in the (occasional) privacy of his own head, but he does know that Baze Malbus is an honorable man, not given to public ridicule. If he can see the embarrassingly juvenile desire written on Chirrut’s face, at least he has the goodness not to say anything about it. 

“I believe the customary response is _you’re welcome_ ,” Chirrut sneers, brushing rainwater from his eyes. Maybe he should take off _his_  robes now, just to teach him a lesson. 

“Right.” Malbus shuffles his feet awkwardly. “You’re welcome, then.”

When he’s gone, Tiya whacks Chirrut between the shoulder blades with her bag of seed. “Chirrut Imwe, so help me, if you _ever_  do that again…”

“I’m sorry, okay! I can’t help it.”

“Whills save me,” she mutters, but mercifully she drops the subject. 

They finish the furrow together in a silence punctuated only by the occasional giggle, which Chirrut ignores. He is an acolyte of the Guardians of the Whills, dammit. He _will_  conquer this. 


End file.
